


Agent Abracadabra

by pine_jay



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Master of Death, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pine_jay/pseuds/pine_jay
Summary: It's been 7 years since Harry Potter left the Wizarding World behind, and nearly as long since he started partnering with SHIELD for the odd mission. He's got the routine down pat: get contacted by an agent, complete the mission, go underground until he gets bored again. But when Phil Coulson contacts him, it's a different story—a mobile unit. Long term. Between the wizard with a chronic pain disorder, the hacker with muddy allegiances, and the pilot who might know a little too much about the war against Voldemort, Coulson sure does know how to build a winning team. AU from CoS onward; post-DH. Start of season 1. Warnings subject to change.





	1. Pilot: Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter timeline has been shifted up a few years, so Harry was born in 1988.

_Johannesburg  
_ _2013_

Harry idly ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he surveyed the room—groups smiling, chatting over drinks and food while music played in the background; the slight stench of smoke drifting from the cigar lounge, mingling with that of bar food, alcohol, and people; the man in the suit, with the receding hairline and dry smile, making his way straight for Harry’s table.

He hadn’t had this kind of meeting in a while, the kind that was actually planned—SHIELD had a tendency to just show up wherever he was, whenever they thought he’d be useful and he’d been lazy enough not to hide. This communication had been too interesting to ignore, though, even disregarding the apparent courtesy. He’d never actually met the man in question, but he knew him by reputation; his initial contact with SHIELD had spoken very highly of him.

“Were you trying to win some sort of favour with the location choice, Agent Coulson?” Harry asked, gesturing to his picked over plate as the other man sat down, surreptitiously casting an anti-eavesdropping charm with his other hand. “I can get fish and chips any old place these days. British fare is increasingly easy to come by.” Coulson snorted slightly.

“The theme was too good to pass up,” he replied, smirking at the Union Jack throw pillows situated on the couch a few feet away. “Though SHIELD would love to know what you were doing in South Africa to begin with.”

“I’m sure they would. I’m also sure they wouldn’t be nearly as surprised by my activities as I was when a dead man contacted me to request a meeting.”

“Technically it was only 40 seconds, everything after is just a bonus.”

“Really? I heard 8. And that they sent you to Tahiti,” Harry said, taking a sip of his scotch.

“I won’t even ask where you learned that,” said Coulson, eying the younger man. “But I didn’t travel all the way to Africa to discuss my mortality.”

“You came to recruit me; no, don’t be surprised, that’s all SHIELD ever wants. What is it this time—some sort of enhanced wizard? One funding shady new tech? Or—no, let me guess—wizards snooping around that battlefield in Manhattan?”

“Try ‘none of the above.’ I’m not here about your abilities.”

Green eyes narrowed, emphasizing the dark circles around them. “Then what do you want me for?”

“I’m putting together a team, a specialized mobile unit. Fury’s been real nice ever since New York, so I’m getting some serious perks—our own ride. No red tape. We pick the ops. It sounded like your kind of thing.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. Coulson looked earnest in a way most of the other agents Harry had dealt with never did, like he actually wanted Harry rather than just his skills and abilities.

Barton had been like that, too, and now Harry was hounded by agents whenever he couldn’t be arsed to cover his footsteps.

“I hate to break it to you, but ‘my kind of thing’ is more beaches and bars.”

“Really? Your file gave me the impression it was unapproved solo ops and rescuing cats from trees.”

“That was one time, and nothing’s unapproved if you don’t work for anyone.”

“If you don’t work for us, would you care to explain how you somehow manage to complete jobs from our mission logs just before they’re assigned?”

“If I work for you, would you care to explain how I haven’t been paid for any of it?”

Coulson closed his eyes for a moment, and Harry silently awarded himself a point.

“Look,” the agent said, threading his fingers together on the table. “I’m not asking you to join SHIELD. Just my team. You can come on as a consultant, if you’d prefer. But my team currently consists of five people, myself included, two of whom aren’t cleared for combat, one who wants to stay as far away from it as possible, and one who is the exact opposite of a team player. I need someone who can help me protect them, and if that person might be able to give us some insight on weird things we see along the way, even better.”

“I’m not exactly in peak physical condition,” Harry said dryly. “I’d think SHIELD would be aware of that.” The look on Coulson’s face indicated that he was, indeed, aware of the wizard’s affliction.

“Like I said, I’ve seen your file; it’s nothing we can’t handle. Besides, you haven’t been tied down for the six years you’ve been on our radar. You’re running from something and that’s okay, but that doesn’t mean you have to be alone while you do it.”

Harry wasn’t sure how long the silence between them stretched on. He stared at Coulson, one hand resting on the table and the other gripping the seat of his chair. Johannesburg’s night life danced on around them, uncaring of the standoff between agent and reluctant consultant.

“I don’t have to join.”

“No.”

“And you’ll be in charge of everything? SHIELD’s bureaucracy won’t have any say?”

“They’ll barely be able to touch us.”

“And you’re sure _I’m_ the person you want to bring on.”

“I know everything that’s in your file.”

A slight moment of hesitation. He had no personal experience with Agent Coulson to draw from, but the man seemed sincere, and Barton had trusted him—and Harry had quite literally trusted Barton with his life on multiple occasions.

Besides, life had been getting a little dull. “Okay.” Coulson brightened immediately.

“Great! When will you be ready to leave?”

“I have everything with me right now.”

“I’ll signal the quinjet,” Coulson said, pulling out his phone. “You need to finish up?”

Harry downed his scotch and stood in response. Coulson’s eyes flicked disapprovingly between the wizard and the half empty plate of food, and he sighed.

“Alright. Let’s get going.”

They walked in silence, and Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on the large SHIELD logo on the side of the SUV. Coulson and Harry both climbed into the back of the vehicle. The driver was large and muscular, with a shaven head and a stony expression, but he nodded sharply and turned the ignition key when Coulson barked out orders in a language Harry didn’t recognize. A dark screen flickered into place between the front and back of the car, and they began to move.

“He won’t be able to hear us; we need to go over any sensitive details now, because we won’t have a privacy screen on the quinjet.”

Harry maintained eye contact with Coulson as he drew his wand and cast his own privacy spells around them. “Well, that is always an option when you’re sure it won’t be noticed,” the agent allowed. “But for now, let’s go over what you’ll need to know between now and the next time we’ll be able to speak alone.

“I actually wasn’t aware of your connection to the wizarding world when I went to Fury about getting you on my team. I knew about you and I knew about magic, but everything is kept very need-to-know in that department.”

“I’m sure the ICW isn’t very happy that such a large muggle organization needs to know anything at all.”

“Yet another reason I don’t envy Fury’s job. Muggle, huh? They call us no-majes back home; I’m honestly not sure which one is more degrading.”

“Be glad you’ve never had to deal with the rest of the blood purity system,” Harry told him. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not surprised. But, back on topic: aside from you and me, Agent May is the only one who will know that you’re a wizard. You’ll meet her when we reach the bus—she and I worked a case involving the wizarding world several years back, so there’s no reason for her not to know. It needs to be a secret from everyone else unless it’s a matter of life and death and there’s no alternative; you know the drill.”

Harry nodded, familiar with the directives. “Typical Statute of Secrecy stuff.” He wrangled his mokeskin pouch from under his shirt and dug around inside, pulling out two miniature bags that were quickly restored to normal size. “Big, strong, and silent won’t question these, yeah?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the driver’s seat.

“Should be fine,” Coulson agreed, interest coloring his voice. “What all can you do? The wizards we worked with weren’t very keen to show off.”

“A lot, and I’m not surprised; the Statute of Secrecy is taken very seriously. I can lend you some books if you’d like. You can pass them on to—what was it?—Agent May if she’s interested. If you can guarantee the information will be kept off record?”

“Of course; SHIELD’s agreement with the ICW is…stringent. In fact, you technically fall under it as well, so if you ever feel like filling May or me in on those massive gaps in your file, you can be assured it’ll all be confidential.”

“Hmm.” That offer was…well, tempting wasn’t the word. He barely wanted to think about the seven years he’d spent away from British wizarding society, much less the time prior to that. It was _relieving_ , in a way, though, to know that if he ever did have to divulge anything greater SHIELD wouldn’t have access to it.

The rest of the ride to the airfield was spent with Harry showing off various minor spells, and explaining what he could do in a fire fight. By the time they were walking onto the quinjet, Coulson was practically vibrating with the need to read those books.

 

* * *

_Undisclosed SHIELD Airfield_

 

The hangar was gigantic, but still not nearly as impressive as the massive black plane it housed. He could see it from several hundred meters away, a distance that was closing rapidly thanks to Lola.

“Is that the ride you mentioned?” Harry asked, nodding to the plane as he ran his fingertips over Lola’s interior. After the multitude of warnings about respecting the car, Harry was tempted to introduce Coulson to his Firebolt and his motorcycle—the older man seemed to have a soft spot for tricked out rides. The plane only served to support that theory.

“You bet it is. The Bus. Officially it’s an airborne mobile command center, but for us it’ll be our home-away-from-SHIELD.”

Coulson smoothly parked Lola on the bus’ ramp and got out, required “Don’t touch Lola” order rolling just as smoothly off his tongue. Harry followed suit, grabbing his two black rucksacks from the back.

Three others seemed to be loading their gear as well—one of them looked like, well, a spy, while the other two practically screamed “Nerd!” _The specialist and the scientists._

 “Harry, these are Agents Leo Fitz, Jemma Simmons, and Grant Ward,” Coulson introduced as Harry drew nearer. “Fitz and Simmons are our engineer and our biochemist, respectively, while Ward is our specialist. You’ll likely be partnered with him on most missions.” Harry nodded to the taller man, who didn’t seem very pleased with the idea of being partnered with anyone. “Everyone, this is Harry Potter, SHIELD consultant.”

“Consultant?” questioned Ward, looking Harry up and down. “Sir, you brought me on for risk assessment. Why wasn’t I made aware of this? There’s no way he’s old enough to—“

“Last minute addition. You’ll receive his basic file, but he’s mostly classified. I can assure you, though, he comes highly recommended.” Ward didn’t look any happier, and Harry felt a twinge of irritation at Coulson’s wording. “Now, you two come upstairs, I’ll show you the bunks. Fitzsimmons, I’ll send Potter back down to you after he’s issued a comm.”

The two scientists grinned and nodded, hefting up more equipment and falling directly into a too-familiar pattern of banter that made Harry’s heart skip a beat. _Merlin help me._

Jaw clenched, Harry adjusted his grip on his bags and followed Ward up the spiral staircase, tuning out Coulson’s running commentary. From the inside the plane—the “bus”—seemed even more absurdly big, and the idea that it would soon be flying was practically unthinkable. The level Coulson stepped off on appeared to have been designed as a fusion between an office building and a very modern sort of bar lounge. The trio stopped just short of the bunks, and a woman approached from further down.

Coulson was about to greet her, but did a double take when he glanced back at Harry. “You alright?”

Harry paused for a split second before realizing that his knuckles were white and his jaw ached slightly. “I’m fine,” he assured. Coulson stared a moment longer and turned his attention to the woman.

“May, this is our specialist, Agent Grant Ward, and our consultant, Harry Potter. Ward, Potter, this is Agent Melinda May, our pilot.”

May looked both men up and down, then gave a nearly imperceptible jerk of the head. “If you’re gonna unpack you’d better do it quickly, wheels up in five.” She turned on her heel and left without another word. Ward stared after her with widened eyes.

“Is that—?”

“She’s just the pilot.” Coulson’s tone was firm and brokered no argument, but Ward just looked at him in disbelief.

“Melinda May is just the pilot,” he said faintly. “What game are you really playing here, sir?” Coulson raised an eyebrow.

“Better stow your gear before you take off. There’s three free bunks, you can take your pick. Fitzsimmons already chose theirs.” He strode away, hands in his pockets.

Harry and Ward stood in awkward silence for a moment, until Harry moved for the bed on the far end, with a buffer bunk between him and Fitzsimmons. He almost thought he heard Ward groan, but the man was expressionless as he claimed the bed between the common area and other-Fitzsimmons’. Sliding the door shut behind him, he tossed his bags into the corner and cast a silent sticking charm to keep them from moving around during takeoff, figuring he could unpack later.

The bunk was small, but far from the tightest quarters Harry had ever lived in—of course, living in a cupboard for ten years made that a hard thing to beat. He did wish there weren’t giant gaps above and under the door, but, again, prior experiences meant he’d slept in more public places as well. There was a small nightstand with a bolted down lamp, a window that he was sure would be nice when it wasn’t showing him the middle of the hangar wall, and a large flat screen TV hung at one end that displayed the SHIELD logo.

He’d almost forgotten how self-involved they were.

Kicking off his shoes, Harry kneeled on the bed so he could get closer to the screen. He ran his fingers over the frame, but didn’t find any dents or bumps to indicate observation equipment. A quick glance around the small space came up with nothing either, not that he’d expected it to. As he slipped his shoes back on he chewed his lip, and reached out to turn the TV off. His phone followed, and he raised his left hand with a deep, centering breath. With the exhale came a pulse of pure magical energy spreading outward from his palm. He nearly drew blood as he bit down on his lip and forced the magic to stop and dissipate when it hit the walls and door.

Satisfied that he’d disabled any bugs or cameras in his personal quarters, Harry knelt by his bags and drew out a stack of books, shrunk them, and stowed them in his mokeskin pouch. He then departed the bunk and headed for the common area as the plane roared to life. Ward was already seated in one of the plush chairs, seatbelt on, closely perusing a SHIELD folder. Harry sat a short distance away and buckled himself in, drawing out his phone to switch it back on.

He looked up to find Ward looking at him. Harry nodded to the folder. “My file?” Ward nodded, lips pursing and jaw clenching in what could only be disapproval.

“If you can even call it a file,” he said sourly. “How does SHIELD have next to nothing on you? Why would Coulson even let an unknown like you on this team, especially one with a known medical problem?”

They began accelerating; light suddenly blasted through the windows behind Ward as they pulled out of the hangar, and Harry’s stomach soared with the plane. Liftoff wasn’t nearly as exciting in a plane as it was on a broom, but he still loved it. He sighed dramatically.

“If you _must_ know, I keep a Coulson voodoo doll under my pillow so that I can influence him through my dreams every night. I also have one of Nick Fury and Pope Francis.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Okay, I get it, it’s classified. But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Probably a good call. The next step in my master plan is to obtain hair, blood, nail clippings, or urine from everyone else on this plane and make more voodoo dolls. Still not clear on how I’ll fit all of them under my pillow, though…”

“Potter, my office. Ward, please go let Agent May know there’ll be a briefing as soon as she can get us on autopilot,” Coulson said as he ascended the stairs. Ward threw a frustrated look at Harry, unbuckled, and stalked off. Harry unbuckled himself, and fought down a smirk when Coulson turned to him.

_“Voodoo dolls?”_ the older man asked as soon as Ward was gone. “Seriously?”

“I have to save ‘It’s classified’ for special occasions, or else it’ll get old.”

Coulson just shook his head and turned, clearly expecting Harry to follow. He led the younger man into what was clearly his office, and Harry closed the door behind him. Coulson watched as the wizard reached into that strange pouch around his neck and pulled out a handful of miniature books, which were placed on the desk and promptly turned full-size. They were all solid colors, with no other identifying features—not even titles.  “There you go. I transfigured the covers ages ago so I wouldn’t have to worry about muggles seeing them.”

“Fantastic. I have something for you, too.” Coulson reached into his desk drawer and produced three things: a comm receiver, a plastic card, and a gun. He held up the receiver. “Take this down to Fitzsimmons, they’ll get you outfitted with the new in-ear comm. This,” he continued, handing over the card, “is essentially your badge. You’ll want to keep it with you at all times, especially in the field or in a SHIELD facility.”

“Do I want to know where you got the photo?” Harry asked, turning the card over in his hands. It looked like a typical ID, but the SHIELD eagle was in the background and he knew for a fact that he’d never posed for a picture. It listed his name and labelled him “SHIELD Consultant.” Coulson just smiled.

“Now, I’m assuming you’ve already managed to sneak one of these through security, but you’ve been cleared to be issued this one.” Coulson slid the pistol across the desk, along with a couple magazines. “Please use it on ops.”

“Sure thing,” Harry murmured, dropping the card and the receiver in his pocket and picking up the gun. “Holster?”

“Downstairs, there should be a box outside the lab. You need to go down there anyway, and bring Fitzsimmons up for a briefing when they’ve finished.” Harry nodded and left the room.

Coulson quickly stowed the large stack of books in one of the bottom drawers of his desk, and locked it. _“Voodoo dolls...”_ he breathed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

 

* * *

 

As cool as the new plane was, Harry quickly found himself longing for somewhere more recognizable. He hated not knowing where everything was, and his short trip down to the lab was plagued by the awful feeling of being caught between familiar—he knew where the lab was and how to get there—and unfamiliar—he really wasn’t sure of anything else.

Fitzsimmons were bustling around the lab when he arrived, and his chest seized when he heard them bickering—even through the glass, their tones were clear. _That_ was a familiarity he could do without.

The receiver was in his hand when he walked through the lab doors, but suddenly Fitz had it and Simmons was swabbing his cheeks.

“I—Coulson sent me down?” Simmons turned and beamed at him.

“Oh, that’s excellent, another Brit on board! Do you hear that, Fitz?” The engineer hit the receiver with a hammer, glanced between Harry and Simmons, and returned his attention to the shattered remains.

“Yeah, that’s great, Jemma. Listen, I just need to get this I.D.I.S. chip out and you can have your earpiece in a few minutes,” he directed at Harry, Scottish brogue evident. “The new in-ear comms don’t need external receivers anymore.”

“I’m encoding it with your DNA. The tech’s absolutely fascinating!” Simmons gushed from the lab bench, where she was doing...something with the swab she’d so unceremoniously shoved in his mouth.

“Er, great. I-I just need to step out for a moment, Coulson said there was a weapons box down here,” Harry said, holding up the gun in explanation. He quickly left the lab and went to the pile of still-packed boxes by the SUV, careful to face away from the glass separating him from the duo.

No one had warned him that Jemma Simmons could pass for a straight-haired Hermione Granger.

Harry forced himself to breathe. He could get through this; worst-case scenario, he could very easily disappear at their next stop. But she reminded him of the Hermione he’d befriended their first year at Hogwarts, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she came with her own smartened-up version of Ron Weasley.

_Merlin,_ he missed them so much.

Another breath, and he turned his attention to the storage bins. They were clearly labelled, so he pulled down the one he needed and helped himself to a hip holster that he clipped on before re-entering the lab.

_Not Hermione, not Hermione, not Hermione._

“I nearly forgot, Coulson wants us for a briefing when you’re done with that,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. He fidgeted with the holster, making sure the gun was secure. “Do you know where the briefing room is? I guess it slipped his mind when we were talking.”

“The command center, yeah, upper deck—“

“That semi-circular room—“

“Between the lounge and our quarters.”

Harry stared. _They talk like the twins._ That didn’t make it any better.

“Great,” he said, and moved as close to the door as he could. He watched them work.

They made everything look so _easy,_ and Harry had no clue what they were doing. He’d done his best to catch up on things like math and science when he’d gone back to the muggle world, but this was far beyond his capabilities. Most SHIELD tech was, to be fair—he could use some of it, but anything beyond that was hopeless. Somehow, though, these two made the science even more unbelievable, and he wasn’t sure why; perhaps it was the way they moved so easily, flowed around each other, just _knew_ where the other was going to be and accounted for that in their motions.

Harry forced himself to look away.

“So, a consultant? I have to say, that was unexpected. When we were brought on, we were told it would be us, a specialist, a pilot, and Coulson. Isn’t that right, Fitz?”

“Yeah. What does consultant mean, anyway? In this case? Though I suppose that’s probably classified.”

“I don’t even know, myself,” Harry admitted, making the pair pause and look at him. “Coulson tracked me down in South Africa. I’ve worked cases with SHIELD before—yes, all classified—but never anything like this, anything so...long term. From what I understand he just wanted someone else who can fight, but...I think I intrigue him.”

“Because of whatever we’re not allowed to know,” Fitz clarified.

“Yeah.” Harry had unconsciously taken a couple steps further into the lab. He could do this. She wasn’t Hermione, and he could move past the similarities.

Fitz, thankfully, was neither redheaded nor English, and that made him infinitely easier to talk to. “Well, here, that’s done,” the engineer said, handing Harry a small earpiece. “Shall we head up? Simmons?”

“Of course!” She smiled at Harry as she passed him and he did his best to smile back, but he felt like he could throw up. Maybe he couldn’t do this.

_Just breathe, Potter._

He followed the scientists up, only paying enough attention to know that Simmons was talking about the history of the bus and Fitz was interjecting occasionally. He focused on his breathing instead, forcing all unnecessary tension out of his body. The lounge was completely abandoned, and the trio found the rest of the team already in the command center.

Harry turned his attention to May; he felt confident of his measure of Ward, at least until they actually started working, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he’d ever figure Coulson out, but he’d only briefly met May. She was an unknown, and more than that, she was an unknown who knew about magic.

A quick once-over was enough to give the impression that she would remain an unknown for a very long time. She had the ultimate poker face, and she stood at attention, ready to fight, eyes fixed on Coulson.

Though, the black tactical gear was a bit overkill in Harry’s opinion. And _of course_ it had SHIELD eagles on the shoulders. He narrowed his eyes and looked around the room.

“The glass,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention. “You put the logo on the _glass? Inside_ the plane?”

“A little bit of pride in one’s workplace never hurt anyone,” Coulson said, glancing up from his tablet.

“The glass,” Harry repeated. “And the car. _And_ your pilot. And that’s not counting the screensaver on every computer and TV in here. I’d like to see your definition of a lot of pride.”

May glanced at her shoulders and then raised her eyebrows at Harry; Coulson looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Remind me to show you the top of the Bus sometime,” he said, reaching for something beneath the table. “And here, have a water.”

Harry nearly fumbled the bottle Coulson tossed him; the label read “Purified H20,” and the SHIELD logo was printed on it not once, but twice. “You have got to be kidding me.” Coulson was shaking with repressed laughter.

“Sir,” Ward intervened, glaring at Harry. “Aren’t we here for a briefing?”

Coulson smirked at Harry before turning his attention to the rest of the team. “Yes. We have new intel, a possible routing point for an organization known as the Rising Tide.” Coulson swiped an image from the table onto the large screen on the wall.

“The hacking group?” Harry asked, adjusting his glasses and moving closer. A red circle blinked around Los Angeles.

“They have a history of interfering with SHIELD,” Ward said.

“And you’re not gonna like what they’ve put out there this time,” Coulson said, putting something else up on the screen. A video started to play.

_“The secret is out,”_ came a girl’s voice. Coulson fast forwarded to a hooded man holding a woman landing in a street with enough force to break the asphalt beneath him.

_“Something impossible just happened. What are you going to do about it?”_

“We’re headed to LA,” said Coulson, stopping the video and bringing up an image of their mystery man. “Fitzsimmons, May, you’re going to check out where this went down. That man pulled the woman out of a building that had just exploded. Potter, Ward, you’re going to come with me to the Rising Tide routing point. It appears to be an alleyway, but we don’t know what kind of security there will be, if any. I want you both at the top of your game.”

“Yes sir,” they answered together.

“Alright then. Let’s find this guy before someone else does.”

 

* * *

_Los Angeles, California_

“A van,” Harry said in disbelief. “Your routing point for the notorious hacking group that interferes with your multi-billion dollar government organization is a van in an alley?”

“Let’s go,” Ward said, straightening his tie and stepping into the street without a second thought.

“You realize they’re probably using that cafe’s wifi.” Harry sped up to keep pace with Ward, while Coulson followed. “Have you ever used public wifi? It’s awful. They managed to hack your multi-billion dollar government organization with a van and public wifi.”

“We already knew they were good,” Coulson said before Ward could retort. “Right now we need to focus on getting the information we need. Come on.”

Coulson pushed past them and continued to the van. Harry let himself drift back as both agents adjusted their blazers before sliding open the van door with a clang. _I should get a suit,_ Harry decided, suddenly overly conscious of his t-shirt, jeans, and weathered leather jacket.

A girl sat in front of a laptop in the van, staring at them with wide eyes. “Some kid, in a van, with a laptop,” Harry muttered.

“She looks older than you,” Ward shot back quietly. Their superior ignored them.

“Uh, can I help you?” the girl asked, eyes shooting between the three of them.

“I certainly hope so.” The world seemed to slow down when Coulson showed her his badge—then she lunged. Ward easily got her in a bear hug, but not before she threw a poorly-formed punch at his stomach. Coulson cuffed her and took an elbow, while Ward flanked her other side. Harry suppressed an eye roll, and followed them back to the SHIELD SUV amidst stares; of course, he stumbled slightly, but Ward couldn’t see him so he only blushed a little.

“Guard her,” was Coulson’s only direction as he very nearly manhandled her into the back seat, producing a bag from...somewhere, and placing it over her head, then buckling her in despite protests. Harry mock-saluted, climbing in beside her while Coulson and Ward returned to the alley.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, voice muffled by the bag.

“Er, bringing you in for questioning, I believe,” Harry said, doing his best to infuse his voice with boredom. In reality he was caught between disapproval of Coulson’s actions, and equal parts amusement and pity for the furious, handcuffed girl with a bag on her head.

“Well—no, Mr. British Accent, this is _America,_ you can’t just grab someone out of their hou— _van_ , stick a bag over their head, and call it questioning!”

Moral dissent aside, Harry couldn’t help but be a little glad for the bag covering her head—it kept her from seeing the smirk on his face. One downside to life avoiding SHIELD was generally as little contact with other people as possible, which meant that a good verbal spar was a valued commodity, and sometimes getting people all riled up just felt so _good._

“I did say _‘bringing you in,’_ and that’s _Agent_ British Accent to you.”

“You’re not an agent.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you for a second pre-bag, you’re, like, twelve. Okay, sixteen. Eighteen,” she amended at Harry’s indignant spluttering. “And you’re not wearing a suit.”

“I could be undercover.”

“With two actual agents wearing suits?”

Harry’s retort was interrupted by the boot opening; Ward was stowing a computer and what looked like several external hard drives. Coulson got behind the wheel, and Ward climbed in the passenger seat.

“Everything good?”

“Does SHIELD usually do bring your kid to work days?” the girl asked before Harry could open his mouth. Ward twisted around and shot him a questioning look; Harry could only scowl.

“Pardon?” Harry could see Coulson’s brow furrow slightly in the mirror.

“I mean, British Accent’s your son, right?”

“Oh, what, it’s not even ‘Mister’ anymore? I need to get a suit,” Harry complained.

_“What?”_

“She doesn’t believe I’m an agent.”

Ward turned back to the front and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, but she should have at least believed me.”

“So why is he here, if he’s not an agent? And could someone _please_ get this bag off my head?”

“I’d love to know that, too,” Ward muttered, ignoring her request. Coulson sighed—very long-suffering, rolled eyes and all—and fixed Ward with a look.

“Mr. Potter is a consultant.” He carefully enunciated each word. “And I’m afraid that removing the bag would be too much of a security risk.”

The rest of the drive back to the airfield was mostly silent, save for bag-girl’s struggling and occasional protests. Once he and Ward had her and her equipment out, Coulson tossed Harry the keys.

“We’ve got the questioning, could you go check on Fitzsimmons and May? Coordinates should already be in the GPS.” Harry nodded brusquely, striding to the driver’s side.

Driving was nice. Not as much as flying, but there was speed and the alone time was nice aside—he couldn’t believe that he’d only been recruited, what, that morning? Yesterday? What was the time difference, anyway? Harry yawned; he’d managed to grab some sleep on the quinjet, but they weren’t exactly the most comfortable vessels in the world and he hadn’t been fully prepared to let his guard down. That, at least, probably explained his slight light-headedness.

This team was already shaping up to be more than he’d signed up for. Probably-enhanced person jumping out of a building to save a woman? He could deal with that. Mouthy tech girls in vans? Sure. Hell, even Ward, for all his nosiness and arrogance, wasn’t _that_ annoying.

Coulson and May, though? Granted, he hadn’t spent much time with either—he’d barely even _seen_ May—and Coulson seemed nice enough, but there was something about them both that put him off. And he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, which made it all about ten times worse. And, on top of _that_ , was Simmons.

She wasn’t Hermione.

He punched the gas.


	2. Pilot: Part 2

Checking on Fitzsimmons and May probably _shouldn’t_ have been the painfully awkward ordeal it had turned out to be. It should have been a simple matter of arriving on-scene, greeting and chatting with his co-workers like a normal person, and getting a status update. Unfortunately, it had started with a violent sneeze and ended with a stony drive back to the Bus. In the passenger seat.

He was also pretty sure Fitz hated him, which sucked.

To be fair, the violent sneeze was the only issue that wasn’t his fault, and it had to rank pretty low on the reasons the others were starting to dislike him. There had been an explosion, after all, and one’s body only had so many defences against debris. That said sneeze had nearly crashed one of Fitzsimmons’ mini science ships was immaterial.

Harry was used to other people disliking him; however, he wasn’t used to their dislike being justified by his own blatantly rude behaviour that he ought to have had better control over. Deferring to Fitz for every scientific question, skulking around May, outright shirking Simmons to the point where he was visibly uncomfortable whenever he was within two feet of her—he should apologize. He didn’t need May’s silence to tell him that, even if he was a tad surprised the road hadn’t iced over with the intensity she was staring at it. He could only be glad that it wasn’t directed at him anymore.

What the hell was he supposed to say? _Sorry, you remind me of this friend I had, and it makes me feel weird._ That didn’t sound like pitiful justification at all.

Maybe he should have just snuck away and disapparated, but the way May had looked at him when ordering everyone back to the vehicles had promised that running was a _very bad_ option, wizard or not. What could she do? Harry didn’t know, but for some reason he really didn’t want to find out. So, he’d gotten in the car. In the _passenger seat,_ and May had taken the driver seat, and Fitzsimmons were probably complaining about him in the other vehicle.

Hermione probably wasn’t complaining, at least; just listening to Ron—Fitz— _Simmons_ probably wasn’t complaining. He closed his eyes briefly. Something was wrong—what had he done today? There was a British themed bar and a girl in a van. Scotch. SHIELD water, SHIELD logos, _not_ joining SHIELD. People eating and drinking and smoking—talking, briefing, charred rubble from an explosion.

The SUV hit a pothole, and pain jolted through his body.

Harry looked down; his hands were trembling. _Shit._ Not even a full day in and he’d not only made enemies out of his co-workers, but he’d forgotten to bring his meds. Anxiety crept into his stomach.

“How much longer until we get back?”

He couldn’t even wince as May’s eyes momentarily turned on him. “We get there when we get there.”

“N-no, I need—” Pain seared up his neck, wrapping around his head like tendrils of Devil’s Snare. He _wasn’t_ being blasé, _wasn’t_ being defiant, no one _ever_ believed that—

“Potter.” The car was slowing down, pulling over. Harry was curling into himself, head cradled in his hands, seatbelt digging into his chest, body wracked with phantom pinpricks. “ _Potter._ Harry.”

“Potion’s on the Bus,” he mumbled, cursing himself as his body twitched against his will. He’d slipped it in his mokeskin before he’d gone to meet Coulson. Except he hadn’t, because he’d left it in his bag when he was packing and gotten distracted trying to explain to the seedy motel owner that he was checking out. It shouldn’t have been a big deal; he _never_ had attacks like this anymore, this _wasn’t supposed to happen._

They were going fast, and it should have felt good. Instead he thought his bones were rubbing together without the buffer of cartilage, and his skin was dry and itching and burning.

He blinked over to May, who had renewed focus on the road—gaze fiery, hot and deliberate. He squinted lazily. This was in his file. Even Ward knew about it. He wasn’t sure—couldn’t be, because everything hurt and his thoughts were everywhere—but he didn’t think May knew.

May hadn’t read his file. He didn’t know what to make of that.

The ringing phone grated against his ears; May pressed a button on the dash and answered on speaker.

“May, is everything alright?” came Simmons’ crackling voice, too loud, and Harry bit back a groan. “You just sort of rocketed off. Has something happened?”

“I need to get Potter back to the Bus. Medical issue,” May said curtly. “It should be resolved quickly once we get there.”

“Is he—well, we’ll see you there.” The _click_ from the hang-up caused a burst of pain behind Harry’s eyes, like a solo rising above a symphony. Sounds were the only specifics left—everything else was a mess of light, colour, and agony.

_Why am I such an idiot?_

He didn’t notice when the SUV slowed to a stop; he could have been flying as far as he could tell. It was dimmer, though, as May had parked in the Bus. She didn’t close her door when she got out, instead going straight to his and opening it. The slight pressure of her body leaning over his to unlatch the seatbelt sent him lurching back, banging his head against the padded headrest.

“Can you walk?” May’s voice sounded distorted and far away, but it was firm and commanding. Harry’s body responded not so much despite his will as in its absence and clambered clumsily out of the SUV—only to collapse against May; apparently feet couldn’t judge the distance to the floor by themselves. He could have been a newborn foal for how steadily he moved, bracing himself first against May and then the SUV, stumbling and pitching forward in search of a new handhold.

_Don’t summon it._ May knew about magic. Someone else could see. The floor was chilly and hard, the hubcap uncomfortable against his back. Someone was talking. A vehicle was rumbling nearby. Quick, heavy footsteps. Flashes of light, splotches of blackness. Voices. His jaw forced open, held shut with something in his mouth, and he tried to swallow.

No one was gloating over his writhing body. No one had in a long time, but it was always the first thing he noticed when the pain began to recede. He was laying on the floor. Blinking back the darkness, May came into focus first. She was leaning over him, brow furrowed, orange prescription bottle dangling loosely from one hand, Fitz and Simmons behind her. Harry heaved a sigh and tried to sit up.

It was disorienting; they were on the hatch and it was open, leaving his head pointing downhill. He ached. May and Fitz helped heave him around so he was facing the exit. He was still shaking.

“If you can get him up to his bunk, I’d like to do a small check up,” Simmons said. Harry’s hand found the side of the SUV and he hauled himself up, holding onto the vehicle and swaying.

“’Sokay,” he slurred. He went to run a hand through his hair, but ended up having to hold onto the SUV again; Fitz grabbed his elbow. “You’ve gotta find Superman.”

“I should really—“

“Potter’s right,” came Coulson’s voice from the top of the stairs. He gave his consultant a concerned once-over and turned to the scientists. “This is a condition he’s had for a while, and I need you two to get me some sort of lead. There’s some stuff for you in the lab.”

“We found some stuff in the building,” Fitz said, almost sounding reluctant. “Potter should still lie down, though.” He began walking Harry away from the SUV, and May quickly closed in on his other side. Coulson met them at the bottom of the stairs and took over from Fitz.

“Find me something,” Coulson told the engineer, who nodded solemnly.

Harry honestly wasn’t convinced that they would clear the stairs; it was slow work. Neither agent said anything as they helped him walked, and he was grateful. When they finally reached the bunks he gladly collapsed beside the open rucksack on his bed and began rummaging through it. Coulson and May didn’t leave.

He produced a stained, beaten spiral notebook and pulled the pencil from its spine. Trembling fingers searched for the most recent page and, finding it, he began filling out the log. Some entries were clearer than others—on some occasions the attacks weren’t very bad, or he’d pass out and not be able to record it until the symptoms had already run their course. Other entries were hardly legible for his shaking. Many were missing the duration—he hadn’t been able to check the time when he realized an attack had begun, or he’d been unconscious when it ended. Regardless of the shortcomings, though, he’d still kept the logs as best he could.

“Could you check on Ward and our guest?” Coulson murmured to May, who set the pill bottle on Harry’s nightstand and departed. Coulson entered the cramped room and slid the door closed, moving the bag off the bed so he could sit beside Harry. He watched as Harry painstakingly pencilled in the date and skipped over every other column in favour of _Medication,_ where he made his best approximation of a checkmark.

“Here,” said the agent, gently tugging the notebook and pencil away. He scribbled something under _Approx. Time Ended._ “May might be able to give us a start time. Can _‘Possible Trigger’_ wait until you’ve had some rest?” Harry nodded gratefully. Coulson closed the notebook and stowed it in the drawer under the nightstand, along with the medication and, at Coulson’s prompting, Harry’s mokeskin, glasses, and gun.

With Coulson’s help, he got his shoes off and slipped out of his jacket. Coulson’s eyes lingered for a moment on the tattoo on the inside of his left forearm—a solid black line reaching from just below his elbow to several inches above his wrist, with a small circle intersecting about two thirds of the way up and a triangle whose top point met the bottom of the line, so it pointed toward his hand. He couldn’t bring himself to care at that point; to Coulson it would just be an odd tattoo with no real significance.

The bed was far more comfortable than he’d expected, though he wasn’t sure how much that had to do with his aching body. He was asleep before Coulson was able to slide open the door.

 

* * *

 

When Harry came to, he thought couldn’t move. The bed was too soft, the blankets too warm, and his body too heavy.

Outside the window, everything was dark.

It took a significant amount of effort to heave himself into a sitting position; he winced as his joints cracked, muscles straining against the mere concept of motion. A blanket slid to the floor. His neck was stiff, as though there was some sort of metal claw latched onto it with prongs that wrapped around to his forehead. His throat was dry, and it felt like someone had shoved a wad of cotton in his mouth while he was sleeping. Half of his body was numb.

Harry’s brain was always muddled after attacks; most were mild—slight confusion, achy muscles—but some were incapacitating, and something unidentifiable burned in Harry’s gut. He’d joined a _long-term SHIELD team_ , and it had come back to bite him on the _first day._

Raking a shaky hand through his hair, he made a couple passes for the drawer on the night stand—kept missing thanks to compromised motor skills and a lack of depth perception without his glasses. He tumbled off the bed to kneel in front of it, legs grappling with sheets and shirt clinging to his torso, carefully grabbing his glasses from the drawer and sliding them on his face. After a moment of deliberation, he snagged the notebook as well, hand brushing the prescription bottle as he did.

He’d been beyond glad when he’d discovered that his potion could be stored in gel capsules. Some potions would make the capsules disintegrate, or would become inert if kept outside of a glass or crystal vial. Others, like Dreamless Sleep, simply had too high of doses for pills to be a reasonable means of administration. He slipped the bottle into the pocket of his jeans.

He didn’t bother trying to straighten his clothes when he stumbled from his quarters; pressure was building in his bladder and he wasn’t even sure where the loo was. A change of clothes could wait.

May was sitting in the common area, hands folded in her lap, glaring into the void. Harry’s file was on the table in front of her, a few inches to the left of where Ward had left it earlier. The previous day? He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been out. She didn’t even glance at him when he approached unsteadily—his hips felt tight and threw him off balance.

“Coulson wants you in his office,” she said. Harry just stared, notebook dangling loosely from one hand, other hand unconsciously flexing in a bid to regain feeling as he tried to sort out his thoughts.

“Toilet?” he finally managed, the not-foggy part of him kicking itself at the question. May simply pointed to a door by the stairs. “Thanks,” he mumbled, tossing the notebook down by the file as he hurried to relieve himself.

The small mirror in the bathroom made him wish he’d at least ironed his clothes before he’d gotten up. His shirt was wrinkled and stuck to his back and under his arms, and rode up on one side around his hip. The collar was stretched out oddly in front. Red blanket marks marred his left arm and cheek, and his hair—messy on the best of days—was smoothed down unnaturally on one side, while the other may as well have been struck by lightning.

A flick of his wand saw his skin cleared, his clothes smoothed and straightened out, and his hair returned to its usual tussled state. He stretched as best he could in the cramped space, and ended up popping both of his shoulders and his wrist. No matter how much he rolled his hips, they wouldn’t loosen. After relieving himself—and he’d had no clue his body could even hold that much liquid—and splashing his face with water, he went back out to the common area. May was sitting exactly as he’d left her, but his notebook was open on the table, numbers scrawled neatly under _Approx. Time Started._

Harry picked up the notebook with a muttered thanks and hastened to knock on Coulson’s office door. He wasn’t sure if she’d responded or not.

From behind his desk, Coulson nodded to the visitor’s chair. Harry closed the door behind him and slunk over to the chair, gratefully sinking into it. The agent’s attention was focused on a paper that he was making occasional marks to.

_I’m working for a young, muggle Albus Dumbledore,_ Harry realized with dawning horror, but quickly shook himself. Coulson had been as straightforward as he could expect from a man working for the world’s most prevalent intelligence agency, and had yet to condescend or—as far as Harry could tell—manipulate him in any way. He was just pulling a move a lot of people with authority were intimately familiar with—and that meant Harry was in some kind of trouble.

Either Coulson was (rightfully) upset about how Harry acted around Simmons, or he’d come to realize that the wizard’s “medical condition” was too much for them to handle. _It’s not a big deal,_ Harry told himself firmly as cold dread swept through his stomach. _The worst thing he can do is kick me off the team._ He fiddled with the notebook.

Coulson made one last mark to his paper and laid his pen down. He stared intently at Harry, who tried not to shift in the chair.

“You alright?” the agent asked, looking him up and down. Harry blinked.

“Yeah,” he muttered, forcing his hands still. “It’s not usually—I’m sorry. It hasn’t been like that in a while. That bad.”

“One of the attacks Barton mentioned _was_ that bad.”

Harry snorted. “That was almost seven years ago. I’d say ‘a while’ covers it.” Coulson hummed, apparently in agreement, and gestured to the notebook in Harry’s lap.

“Any idea what triggered it? We haven’t really done anything strenuous.”

“It’s not—” Harry broke off, biting his lip. “Physical stuff can cause attacks, but the big ones are usually because of more...” Another pause. “A lot has happened today.”

Harry still wasn’t even sure if _today_ was strictly correct. Coulson nodded thoughtfully.

“Allying yourself with SHIELD for such a long-term project was a big decision.” Harry gripped his knees tightly. “I suppose _strenuous_ doesn’t preclude _emotionally_ strenuous.”

And there was that word Harry had been trying to avoid.

“I should have had my potion on me.” Coulson hummed again.

“You should have. But I can’t say that I’ve never misplaced something while packing. I assume it won’t happen again?” Harry nodded more fervently than he’d meant to. “Then I don’t see any reason to hold it against you. Is there anything we can do to help ease your transition? Keep it from happening again?”

Simmons’ face flashed in front of him, and Harry balled his hands into fists on his knees and shook his head. “I don’t think so. Thank you, sir.”

Coulson eyed him for just a second too long, and nodded. “Feel free to let me know if you think of anything. And keep those pills somewhere the rest of us can reach, just in case,” he added. “Agent Simmons has been asking a lot of questions about your condition. I don’t suppose there’s anything she shouldn’t see in that notebook?”

Harry relaxed his hands and let a fingertip trail along one of the creases on the notebook’s cover. He’d purposefully kept anything related to magic vague so that he didn’t have to worry about keeping it away from muggles, but it felt like an oddly personal thing to just hand over. Still, he was supposed to be working with these people, and that implied a certain level of trust. And he’d been such an arse already—perhaps it would be seen as some kind of peace offering.

“I’ll give it to her.” The offer came out of his mouth before he could second guess the decision, but Coulson’s approving nod and not-quite smile made it worth it. _Maybe I should have slept longer,_ Harry thought, running a hand through his hair. Rushing to cleanse himself of the moment, he asked “Is she in the lab?”

“Yeah, she and Fitz have been working over some of the stuff they found in that building. Ward and I managed to get through to Skye—the girl from the van?—just before you woke up, so could you have them come up for a briefing?”

“Sure,” Harry said, standing, and his hips finally popped. “We’ll be up in a bit.”

It was almost like déjà vu, treading the path from Coulson’s office down to the lab. His footsteps were heavier this time, and he could feel a slight slump in his shoulders—nothing time and a little coffee wouldn’t fix. The pit in his stomach, though...well, some things just had to be powered through.

Fitz and Simmons were bustling around as they were when he’d gone down for his comm unit, but this time there was a different sort of energy—stressed rather than excited. The air buzzed with anxiety. Fitz couldn’t seem to keep still, muttering to himself as he danced around the holotable and flitted between different screens. Simmons spoke to the room at large as she scanned and tapped at something displayed on one of the examination tables. Harry cleared his throat.

“You’re awake!” Simmons exclaimed when she registered his presence, peeling off her black latex gloves and starting toward him. He tried to smile, but was sure it was more like a grimace.

“You look horrible,” observed Fitz, peeking over some holographic rendering floating over the table.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, running his free hand through his hair. “I—sorry about earlier.” Try as he might, Harry couldn’t quite look at either scientist. Instead, he shoved the notebook toward Simmons. “I—Coulson and I thought you might like to look at this, when the case is done. I’ve tried to keep records of...these attacks. They’re not the best, but...” he trailed off and shrugged, keeping the notebook stretched out in front of him.

“Thank you!” Simmons said, and Harry was sure he wasn’t imagining the strained note in her voice. “I was hoping that maybe we could talk, when we have some down time? I’m the closest thing to a physician here, so...”

“I’d be glad to chat,” Harry said, this time managing to force something approaching a genuine smile. “I don’t think I can tell you everything about it, but I might be able to clear up a bit. And I’ll actually have the medication on me from now on.” He patted his jeans pocket. Simmons shoulders relaxed slightly, and she brightened.

“That’s real great,” said Fitz, still behind the holotable. Harry nearly winced at his tone. “Did you need anything else?”

“Coulson wanted another meeting.” Harry took a slight step back toward the door. “I guess he and Ward got something out of the Rising Tide girl.”

“We’ll be up in just a moment,” Simmons said before Fitz could. Harry nodded and tried not to leave too quickly.

Harry thought it was kind of odd that the Bus didn’t have much in the way of interior lighting—or, at least, that its interior lighting was dim despite the darkness outside and the “awake” status of its occupants. The briefing room, though, was decently lit by the table and screens that lined one wall. Coulson and the van girl were already present, apparently finishing up some heavy moment. Harry made eye contact with Coulson before entering, taking note of the card he slipped into his pocket.

“They’ll be up soon,” Harry said before the agent could ask. He shifted his attention to the girl. What had Coulson said her name was?

“This is Skye,” Coulson introduced. “Skye, this is our consultant, Harry Potter. I believe you two briefly met earlier?”

“There wasn’t much in the way of pleasantries,” Harry said, leaning against the wall. “Nice name.”

“Nice tattoo. You know, without that bag over my head you really _do_ look about sixteen.”

“Speaking of the bag, is there any way we could bring that back? I think liked her better with it on.”

“Don’t know what to do when faced with a beautiful woman?” Skye taunted, rolling her shoulders back. “Your partner sure didn’t.”

“Partner? You mean Ward? Do tell,” Harry asked, very interested to hear anything that might have involved Ward making a fool of himself. Skye smirked and opened her mouth, but Coulson cut her off.

“Skye has agreed to give us information on our hooded hero,” the agent said firmly. “She was tracking something called Project Centipede, which she managed to trace to the building that exploded.”

“SHIELD hadn’t even _heard_ of Centipede before I came along,” Skye said haughtily, apparently sufficiently distracted from the topic of Ward’s humiliation. Pity.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Coulson. “Really?” he murmured. Coulson nodded his confirmation. “That is interesting.”

May entered, barely paying any mind to Harry and Skye. “Fitzsimmons?” she asked Coulson.

“One their way up.”

“And Ward?”

“Taking a nap,” Coulson said, shooting a stern look at Harry as the wizard suppressed a smirk; making eye contact with Skye didn’t help matters, and soon both SHIELD outsiders were choking down laughter.

They were saved from what was presumably a lecture on respect and teamwork from Coulson by the arrival of Fitzsimmons, who profusely and simultaneously apologized for their tardiness. Skye nearly broke down when Simmons asked if Agent Ward would be joining them, and Coulson very curtly informed everyone that the agent in question would be filled in later. Fitzsimmons seemed suitably confused, and Harry did his best to remain unnoticed.

He was slightly surprised when Skye joined him against the wall; Fitzsimmons and May assembled around the table, and Coulson drew out the card Harry had seen him holding before. He placed it on the table, which immediately scanned it and began bringing up pertinent information.

“Michael Peterson. Factory worker,” Coulson said, pacing around the table. Skye pushed off the wall and followed him. The rest of the team leaned in to see what the computer table pulled up, but Harry hung back. “Married, one kid. Gets injured, gets laid off, wife jumps ship. Good guy, bad breaks. Best guess is somebody tells him they can make him strong again. Make him super.”

“Who has the tech to do that?” asked May. “And why would they want to?”

“Man sounds desperate,” Harry said, brow furrowing. “No job, no income, kid to support—perfect candidate for a below the board experiment. Plenty of people want super powers; they’ve been trying since Erskine. The real question is where is the money coming from?”

“Fitz, what do we have from the security footage before the blast?”

Fitz tapped on the table a couple times, and an image appeared on one of the screens. “What are we seeing?” asked May.

“Well the man is angry at the other man,” said Fitz, gesturing to the two men on the screen. Harry stifled a sigh, May looked exasperated, and Coulson maintained a deadpan stare.

“The data is very corrupt,” Simmons quickly injected.

“Yeah, like Cold War Russia corrupt,” Fitz said. “I can’t sync the time code without—”

“What if you had the audio?” Skye interrupted. Everyone’s attention immediately turned to her. “I was running surveillance on the lab, I had my shotgun mic pointed at the window before the blast. The digital files are in my van—there’s too much background noise for me, but you could probably—”

“You could clear that up, can’t you?” Simmons said, she and Fitz turning to each other. They muttered back and forth, apparently unaware of how attentive the rest of the room was on them, focused only on the problem and each other. Harry shoved his fists in his pockets, knuckles of one hand rubbing against the prescription bottle and the other meeting his wand.

“That audio would be great,” Fitz finally said, the pair thanking Skye.

“Your van’s here, but you were right. We couldn’t decrypt your files,” Coulson said, a note of resignation in his voice. Skye straightened up.

“The encryption’s coupled to the GPS,” she preened. “Get my van back to that alley and then I’m in business.”

“Agent May and Mr. Potter will escort you,” Coulson told her. The trio nodded, and began filing out of the room. Coulson stopped May with a look. “And on your way out, wake up Ward.” She nodded and strode away, heels clacking as she walked.

“Do you have everything you need?” May asked Harry as they approached Skye.

“I’ll grab a couple things while you deal with Ward,” he said, and she nodded.

“You go with him,” she told Skye, who nodded, looking slightly put out.

“Damn, I was hoping to be there when he woke up,” Skye said wistfully, following Harry toward the sleeping quarters. Harry snorted.

“Exactly why she sent you with me.”

“Yeah...maybe we shouldn’t have laughed when Coulson mentioned him.”

“We’ll never know now,” Harry said, sliding open the door to his bunk.

“They put you in the corner?” Skye was craning to look over his shoulder.

“I chose this one.” Harry pulled the gun and holster from the nightstand, affixed them to his waistband, then eyed his jacket speculatively. “Think it’ll be cold?”

“Not very.”

Harry shrugged and knelt in front of one of his rucksacks, pulling out a black pullover hoodie. He stood and put it on, then turned to Skye. “Ready?”

“After you.”

They set off together, both mildly disappointed that they didn’t come across Ward on their way down to the hatch. May was, predictably, waiting when they arrived, and they all piled into Skye’s blue van. Harry claimed the backseat while May sat next to Skye, who had made it clear that she was the only one allowed to drive her van.

_I wonder if she’ll ever ride in Lola,_ Harry thought dryly, sprawling across what was probably Skye’s bed.

The ride itself wasn’t particularly eventful, and an awkward silence descended on the trio. Harry played with the fringes of a blanket and grunted to make his discomfort known every time they hit a bump or the van stalled unexpectedly.

When they reached the alley—admittedly not long after they’d left the airfield—May hopped out of the van, freeing her seat for Skye to access her computers. From what Harry could see it was still dark, and very, very quiet. May didn’t give him any indication that she wanted him to leave the van as well, and he honestly wasn’t sure why Coulson had sent him at all; based on what Coulson had told him at the bar, Fitzsimmons were the ones who weren’t cleared for combat, so he figured that Ward was the one who didn’t work well with others and May wanted to keep away from violent situations. If Coulson wanted Harry to fight in May’s stead that was all well and good, but she seemed...well, not content, but she was certainly taking point and not seeming to pay Harry any mind at all.

“Audio files should be coming through, it’s not compressed so it might take a minute,” Skye said into a mobile phone, fidgeting with her equipment. She waited a few moments, then pulled the phone away from her ear looking slightly confused. “It’s transferring,” was all she said. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Harry teased his tongue between his teeth and knocked one foot against the other, gaze wandering to the ceiling.

Skye grabbed something from under a notepad and stuck it in her shirt—probably her bra, Harry realized. “That should do it!” she said, closing her laptop. May started to climb in.

“Let’s head back,” the agent said, and Harry thought she sounded like a teacher chaperoning a fieldtrip.

He’d been on some pretty horrible ones, but none of them had ended with someone jumping onto the teacher from above. Harry’s hand was halfway to his gun, body partially out of his seat, but it was too late; May was thrown against the building next to them, and Skye was saying “Mike! What are you doing?” Harry pulled his sweatshirt down over the gun instead.

“Saving you,” came the reply from outside the van. “From the scary men in dark suits. And you’re gonna help save us.”

_Merlin, no._ “Mike” had to be Mike Peterson, and if it was Mike Peterson the only “us” could be—

“Us?” Skye asked, and Harry heard a little (so small, so young) grunt. Skye’s eyes closed briefly, and Harry knew he was right.

“Don’t cry,” Mike said, and suddenly a child was lifted into the van. Skye scrambled back to make room. “Kay? Stay strong for me, Ace. What are we?”

He had Ace settled on his knee, his back still facing Harry, who debated whether or not to draw attention to himself.

“We’re a team,” Ace recited. Skye looked back at Harry, who nodded; she had some sort of rapport with Mike, and he would let her take control of the situation.

“That’s right,” Mike said, slamming the van door shut. “Now drive.”

Skye did as he said, turning the key and revving the engine. After a brief moment, she cleared her throat. “Mike.”

“Just go,” he said, eyes focused on the road. He ran a shaky hand up and down Ace’s back.

“There’s something you need to know,” Skye continued, manoeuvring her way out of the alley. Mike was getting visibly more and more upset, and Ace was still seated on his lap. Skye’s knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel.

“Hi there,” Harry called, keeping his voice as light as he could. Mike started, almost throwing Ace in his haste to get the child behind him.

“What—who the f—who—”

“Sorry, I’m Skye’s cousin; she’d just been explaining that I’d picked a bad time to come visit when that lady showed up.”

“Cousin?” Mike looked demandingly at Skye, who glanced at him quickly and nodded.

“The lady told him to stay back there and stay quiet,” she said, voice thankfully steady. “Don’t worry, he’s on our side.”

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he gave a little wave, “Harry Evans.”

“You’re not with them,” Mike said, sweat on his brow. Harry shook his head.

“No, and I’d like to help you any way I can; Mike, right? Skye mentioned you.”

“You trust him?”

“With my life. And yours,” Skye said firmly. Mike’s breathing was uneven as he looked between them, but slowly he moved and let Ace come out from where he’d been stuck between his father and the desk.

Harry was glad he hadn’t gotten a suit.

“Alright.” He brought Ace back up onto his lap.

“Maybe he could come sit with me?” Harry suggested. “Ace, right? We don’t want to get pulled over just because you’ve got a kid on your lap.” Mike’s breathing sped up again, but he jerked his head.

“Yeah...yeah, that’s a good idea. You hear that, Ace? How ‘bout you go back and sit with Mr. Evans.”

The child nodded and slid off his father’s lap, stumbling to the back of the van. Harry made room and offered the best smile he could muster. “Hi, Ace. You can call me Harry.”

Harry tried to keep a running dialogue with Ace for the whole drive to Union Station. The kid was six years old, went to an elementary school in LA, and loved superheroes. They both looked at Mike when the latter subject came up, and Ace was the one who guided the conversation to something else. Looking closely, Harry couldn’t see any obvious signs of trauma in the boy—he looked tired, but the sun was just starting to come up so that was completely understandable. He didn’t even look particularly afraid, but Harry caught him casting anxious looks toward his father and playing with the hem of his jacket.

When they pulled to a stop at Union Station, Mike immediately had Skye removing everything about him and Ace from the internet and secure government databases.

“The DOL, the school system, the library—we’ve never existed,” he’d ordered, moving to the floor in front of Ace and rocking slightly. Sweat poured down his face, and Harry thought he saw a strange orange light pulsing just below the man’s skin, but wrote it off as lack of food or sleep. Mike wasn’t able to keep still for long.

“How long is this going to take?” he demanded, crouching beside Skye. Harry pursed his lips and looked at Ace; the kid looked at his dad, then the floor. He was nearly curled into the side of the van.

“Hey, have you ever seen a card trick?” Harry asked, reaching into his pocket with his left hand. He silently conjured a deck of cards. Ace sat up and shook his head, watching Harry attentively. “Well, we’ll have to fix that, yeah? Pick a card.” He fanned the deck out in front of Ace who carefully, delicately plucked out a card with his thumb and forefinger. “That’s it, now, don’t show me, alright? Just look at it and remember what it is. Now put it back in, anywhere you want.”

Upon learning about the wizarding world and that Harry was a member, Clint Barton had introduced him to muggle “magic tricks.” Harry had loved them. He’d tweaked a few so they used actual magic, to amaze even the most sceptic audience, but good old fashioned sleight of hand would do just fine for Ace.

The poorly suppressed grin on the child’s face told him the card was probably one of the aces, but Harry was content to wait and see.

He shuffled the deck in the most visually dramatic way possible, tossing it from hand to hand, bending it into a bridge and letting the cards cascade into place, enjoying how Ace tracked his every move with wide eyes. When he produced the ace of spades with a flourish and a theatrical “Is this your card?” the child grinned and clapped.

“Can you show me how?” Ace asked. Harry tapped on his chin.

“Well, a true magician never reveals his secrets,” he said, and Ace’s expression dropped. Harry leaned in conspiratorially. “So it’s a good thing that I’m a wizard.”

As Skye deleted everything to do with Mike and Ace Peterson, Ace learned how to shuffle and how to lay out a basic card trick.

After a while, Mike joined them again.

“Did you see that, Dad?” Ace asked excitedly as he correctly selected Harry’s card. Mike smiled weakly.

“Good job, bud.”

Harry gathered up the cards and Ace fell silent, not quite looking at his father. Mike began rubbing his hands together anxiously, and when he looked at Ace, his pupils were dilated. The strange light was back, and Harry adjusted his glasses.

“It’ll be okay, you’ll see,” Mike said, putting his hands on Ace’s knees. The boy squirmed slightly. “We’ll take the nice people with us. W-w-we can’t go to the airport, so w-we’ll take a train.” The man was obviously juiced on something, and Harry had a feeling it wasn’t some run of the mill street drug. His movements were jerky and his breathing was increasingly uneven. Ace leaned back into the cushion behind him. “And then they’ll—they’ll help us start over. Make a new life. A better life. Like I always said.”

He was practically pleading with Ace, desperate for his son to understand him. Harry hoped Coulson had some way of knowing where they were.

“Mr. Peterson, good morning,” came Coulson’s voice, amplified through some sort of loudspeaker, outside. Harry nearly dropped his head into his hands. Mike looked terrified, turning around so he was in front of Ace. “We’re not a threat, we’re here to help, but you’re in danger and we need to take you in.”

“What did you do?” Mike yelled at Skye, and there was definitely an orange flash in his cheeks. Harry scooted over and grabbed Ace.

“Whatever happens, stay close to me, you understand?” he asked in a low voice, and Ace nodded, leaning into him.

Mike’s palm struck the van door, and it flew out like it was hit with an overpowered banishing charm. People were screaming, and Mike was grabbing at Ace; Harry picked him up and forced Mike to grab his arm instead. The man’s grip was unnaturally strong, but Harry was sure he was holding back.

Project Centipede. This had to be some sort of super soldier serum. Mike could probably crush his arm if he wanted.

Mike dragged Harry with one hand and Skye with the other, through the crowd and into the station. Despite the screams outside no one inside seemed to realize that anything was amiss. Harry held Ace as tightly as he could, thankful that the child had wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and his legs around his waist. Harry couldn’t believe it when Skye stopped and kicked who he presumed to be a complete stranger in the crotch.

“You’re right, he is a little bitch,” she sneered, slipping away when Mike instinctively slipped into a defensive position. He shoved Harry behind him. Through the crowd, Harry saw Coulson. He took off, shouldering his way through all of the people who stopped to watch the fight.

“Ace you can trust these people, okay?” he huffed, skidding to a stop in front of Coulson, trainers leaving rubber marks on the polished floor. He set Ace down. “They’ll take care of you. I have to go help your dad and Skye.” Ace nodded, stumbling toward Coulson, who leaned down to guide him.

“Let’s get him out of here,” he told an officer quickly, and turned back. “Harry—”

He was too late; Harry tore after Skye, catching sight of her purple shirt. He followed her through a passage and found her trying to force her way through a door. She looked at him with wide eyes.

“Ace?”

“With Coulson.”

“Good, we need to—” She was interrupted by Mike Peterson throwing himself over a railing above and landing next to them, grabbing both of their arms. Before he could say anything, a gunshot narrowly missed Skye and shattered a glass lamp behind them.

Fortunately, Mike still seemed to fancy himself a hero. He put himself between them and the gunman and kicked open the door, dragging them through it while an alarm sounded. Harry and Skye stumbled behind him as they ascended a stairway outside of the station, and re-entered through a set of glass doors on the balcony a level above. Skye wrenched her arm free.

“You’ve got to stop, these people can help you!” she said, hair falling in her face. Harry rubbed his arm, looking between the pair. He still had his gun, and his wand was in his pocket, but he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of using either.

They needed a break.

“The men in suits? Are they your buddies now? Where’d they take my son?” He rounded on Harry, grabbing him again. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Where is Ace?”

He was screaming in Harry’s face, his own face drenched and flashing orange. “He’s safe,” Harry told Mike. “That’s a good thing, right? He’s not around the guns or the fighting.”

Mike looked furious. He snatched up Skye’s arm and dragged them both further into the station, to a waist-high glass barrier where they could look down on the main area. Skye was struggling. Another shot barely missed them.

“Get down!” Mike barked, throwing them to the side. Harry landed several feet away from Skye and had to adjust his glasses; Mike was focused on the gunman, the gunman was focused on Mike, and Skye was trying to get her bearings.

A shot hit Mike, and he fell over the railing. Skye stared after him in horror, and Harry pointed his left hand at the unaware gunman, muttering _“Expelliarmus.”_ The man jerked back as the gun was ripped from his hands, clattering to the ground a couple yards away.

Harry scrambled to his feet, ready to charge, but May beat him to the punch—literally, along with a few kicks. Instead he helped Skye to her feet; she looked completely awed by May’s martial arts display. May ushered her down the stairs, but held Harry back.

“The serum will cause him to explode if his metabolic processes aren’t halted,” she explained quickly and quietly. “Channel 2 on your comm is secure; only Coulson and I will hear you.”

She hurried after Skye. Harry stayed on the upper level.

He hadn’t taken the earpiece out of his pocket, and was infinitely thankful for that when he pulled it out and stuck it in his ear. He switched to channel 2.

“This is Harry Potter, come in,” he said, keeping a finger to his ear. Coulson was talking to Mike below.

“Think that means anything?” Mike was saying. “I know you’ve got men everywhere waiting to put me down.”

“We hear you, Potter. Anything you can do?” May asked, keeping her voice low.

“I can stun him with magic and that might be able to stop it,” he said. “MACUSA will get involved if I do.”

There was a pause. “Can you hear what’s going on down here?”

“Yes.”

“If Coulson says your name, do it. He’s holding out for something Fitzsimmons was working on.”

“And Ward?”

Another pause. “In position.”

Harry didn’t need to ask what position. He switched back to the main channel.

“It matters who I am—inside, if I’m a good person. If I’m strong,” Mike was saying, voice ringing clear through the station.

“I have a clear shot, do you copy?” Ward said over the comm.

Harry crept along the overlook so that he could see Mike. He could see Ward, a level down across from him, rifle readied. He waved his left hand and cast a notice-me-not charm, and drew his wand with his right.

He took aim.

Coulson must have had experience with talking people down, because even as Mike became more erratic and violent he was just _there._ Talking. Harry could see why Barton had spoken so highly of him—if the man was half as good at other aspects of the job, he had to be among the best.

The comms were silent as Coulson stepped up to Mike. Fitz was running up to Ward. _Thank Merlin._

“I could, you know?” Mike was asking. “Be a hero?”

Harry half expected Coulson to give him the go ahead right there, somehow work his name into the conversation, because Ward hadn’t said anything and he had no way of knowing that Fitzsimmons had brought some weird silver gun. If Coulson did, would he do it? Or would he just hope that whatever Fitzsimmons had come up with would do the trick?

 “I’m counting on it.”

The ensuing _thwack_ wasn’t like any gunshot Harry had ever heard. The crowd below gasped as Mike Peterson went down, and Harry’s insides went cold, but Simmons was running past Skye and Coulson, so maybe everything was okay. He forced himself to bolt down the stairs rather than vault over the railing.

As he reached the front entrance, flashing his SHIELD ID card to the police, Coulson’s voice came on over the comm. “Subject is in stable condition. All clear at Union Station.”

He nearly keeled over from the relief that swept through his body.

As Harry approached the scene, unnoticed by the emergency workers rushing around him, he caught sight of a gift stand that had been mostly untouched by the fight; one stand was knocked over, leaving books splayed across the floor, but everything else looked okay. He knelt down and picked up one of the books.

_Card Tricks: A Guide For Every Level_

One of the intact displays held decks of cards; he grabbed one, checked the prices for the book and the deck, and left the exorbitant gift store fee behind the till.

Skye and Coulson were talking a ways away, and he approached them slowly. When Skye noticed she threw her arms around him, and he stiffened in surprise. “That. Was. Insane,” she said, drawing back and looking him up and down. “Aw, are those for Ace?” she cooed, seeing the book and cards. Harry blushed slightly.

“Could you get these to him?” he asked Coulson, holding them up. “We did some card tricks in the van and he seemed really into them. I figured he might like these.”

Coulson smiled and took the gifts. “Of course. Ace is going to be living with his aunt while we help his father. I was going to bring Skye to take him to her house, would you like to join us?”

“I—” Harry started, intending to accept, but was hit by a wave of lightheadedness. His arms ached in the various places Mike had grabbed them with his super strength, and he was suspecting that he hadn’t actually been out for very long after the pain attack. “I’d love to, but I think I actually need to lie down for a bit.” The agent nodded, face morphing to concern.

“Ward’s already taken Fitzsimmons back to the Bus, but May will be leaving after another agent arrives to oversee cleanup. That shouldn’t be too long. Think you’ll be alright?”

“Yeah, I just need some proper rest.”

Coulson patted his shoulder. “Alright. I’ll see you back at the Bus. And I’ll tell Ace these are from you.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and Skye hugged him again before they left.

May wasn’t hard to spot, lurking off to the side in her black tactical gear and glaring away anyone who looked like they wanted to talk to her. Harry approached her anyway, slipping his hands into his pockets and observing the work going on around them.

“Coulson said I could get a ride back with you?” he asked, watching her through the corner of his eye. She nodded.

“You alright?” she asked after a few moments.

“Nothing a bit of a lie down won’t fix.”

Compared to the silence between them after they’d left the exploded building, the silence from Union Station to the Bus was downright comfortable. Harry slipped into a state of not-quite sleep as the engine purred and the road roared and May kept all of her focus on driving.

“Oh, there they are!” came Simmons’ voice when Harry and May got out of the SUV. “We were talking about ordering takeout, would either of you like something?” Her head was poking out of the lab, and Fitz and Ward were pouring over a computer behind her. May stared for a moment before going in to look at the menu they had open, and Simmons looked expectantly at Harry.

“I’m afraid I won’t last until it comes,” he said weakly.

“Is something wrong? I could look you over, or—well, we’re in LA, we could get you to a proper physician—”

Harry held up a hand. “Nothing that drastic,” he said. “Bed’s probably the best thing for me at the moment.”

Simmons looked torn. She turned back into the lab. “Fitz, you know what I want!” she called, then turned to Harry. “Let’s go upstairs; a quick, verbal check-up before bed, alright?”

“Okay,” sighed Harry, too tired to argue.

_“Harry, you_ have _to go to Professor McGonagall about this!”_

_“You look like you should be in the hospital wing, Harry.”_

They settled into the seating in the common area, on either side of the table. Harry felt his shoulders slump the moment he sat down, and he let his head fall into his hands.

“Does anything hurt?” Simmons asked gently. Harry winced.

“My arms, mostly; Mike grabbed us a lot and I think he was holding back, but he was still insanely strong.”

“Do you think they’re broken?” He shook his head negatively. “Is there anything else?”

“A general ache. He threw and shoved me out of the way a few times.”

“Can I look at your arms?” After a moment, Harry peeled his sweatshirt off.

His arms looked worse than he was expecting: large, hand-shaped bruises splotched up his forearms and above his elbows, mottled red and purple, getting darker as time passed. Turning his arm and pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt slightly, Harry could see the clear imprint of fingers on his upper arm. Simmons gasped.

“I—It’s to be expected, I suppose,” she muttered. “I don’t think he knew his own strength, but at the same time—he _must_ have been holding back...”

“There was someone with a gun,” he found himself explaining, “dressed like a police officer, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. He kept shooting at Mike, and Mike threw us out of the way. I don’t think either Skye or myself would be in any condition to talk right now if he’d used his full strength.” Simmons nodded slowly.

“He did want to be a hero,” she murmured. “I’ll let you rest. Those should go away on their own, but if anything gets worse, let me know. Would you like us to order you something to heat up later?”

“That’d be great,” he said tiredly. “Anything, thanks. I’m not picky.”

Simmons nodded and stood up, worrying her lip. “Maybe once you’ve rested we could talk?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Sure.”

He went to his bunk before she could say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that some of the dialogue was lifted directly from the episode. Since it's retelling the exact same event with an extra character, I figured ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Well, this is a few thousand words longer than the last chapter. 5,449 of those words were actually written in one night surprisingly enough—I hadn't gotten alerts for the emails about a few of the reviews on the last chapter, so when I logged on and saw them it kind of kicked me into hyperdrive. Granted, the three thousand-some words before that took a few literal months.
> 
> That being said, I can't say when the next chapter will be out; I have to rewatch the second episode and figure things out from there. Thanks to everyone who's responded in some way or another, it really makes me glad for writing this!


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